Hokkaido Highway Blues

swept through Maizuru without stopping, swinging in and out of inlets, up along the coast and then, coming up quickly on my right, was Ama-no-Hashidate, the Bridge of Heaven.
    It is a natural, wooded causeway, a thin ribbon of forest unrolled across the bay. It began as a sandspit, created slowly over thousands of years as grass took root and then pine trees. This narrow bar of land divides Miyazu Bay almost in two. On the one side are choppy waves, rolling in from the Japan Sea. On the other side, in the lakelike lagoon silted with sand, is a calm mirrored surface. When viewed from above, it forms a trestle of forest that seems to float just above the water, an “avenue of pine trees.” The Bridge of Heaven.
    It was here, in the murky depths of time, that Japan was born. It was here that the drunken sexual forays of the siblings Izanagi and Izanami brought forth the thousands of deities and countless islands of Nippon. A male jeweled staff was plunged into the primordial wetness, withdrawn, and then waved, scattering its drops of seed across the void. When Izanagi and Izanami met—here on the Bridge of Heaven—they made the first, primal observation. “You have something that I do not have,” said the sister.
    “And you have a hidden place that I lack,” replied the brother. Not the best pickup lines in history, but soon there were babies poppin’ out all over. The two were so fertile that children were born from tears, sweat, sighs. The land was ripe, and everywhere moist life bloomed. The world began in forest and sea and rain, thick, wet and humid, pregnant with possibilities.
    “The Bridge of Heaven is three-point-five kilometers long,” said Mr. Ito. ‘According to the official tally, four thousand seven hundred and sixty-three pine trees grow along it.” We had parked the car and were now waiting for the pedestrian swing bridge to be brought into position. “No cars are allowed on the Bridge of Heaven,” said Mr. Ito. “But we can rent bicycles.”
    Against my further protests, they paid for the rental and we set off down the Bridge of Heaven. Mrs. Ito kept swerving in and out ahead of me, almost crashing, gasping in laughter, as Mr. Ito trudged on, straight as an arrow and just as unwavering. The sand slowed us down now and then, and the wind came in with determined blasts.
    The pine trees we passed had been shaped by the wind, forming a forest of gentle curves, and even the sandspit itself, while appearing straight, arced slightly. Framed by the banks on either side, the entire Bridge of Heaven forms a long, languid S shape. It is one of Japan’s “Three Most-Scenic Spots,” as ranked by tradition and tourist board promotions.
    A research team from Meiji University spent several years analyzing the site. The scientists studied infrared images of the landscape, and a newspaper report—without the slightest hint of irony—made the following proclamation: “Using photographic computer analysis, researchers have succeeded in isolating the specific elements of beauty that compose Japan’s most scenic locations.... They have discovered that the famous white sands and blue pine trees of the Bridge of Heaven are relatively minor features of the view. A scientific breakdown shows that pine trees comprise just 8.2 percent of the overall picture and the sandy beach a mere 0.4 percent. Sky, on the other hand, is more prominent, taking up 3I percent of the scene. Mountains comprise 23 percent.” (Who says you can’t put a number on beauty?)
    “There are two Bridges of Heaven,” said Mr. Ito. “One that you ride through and another that you see from above. The two views are completely different.”
    “And you look through your legs,” said Mrs. Ito. “Shall we go?”
    I had heard about this. The proper way to view the Bridge of Heaven was to climb a mountain and then turn around, bend over, and look at it from between your knees. With your head upside down and your senses disoriented, the effect was said to make the bridge seem to float in air. I couldn’t wait to see, firsthand, Japanese tourists striking these ungainly poses.
    The brochure went one better and had a picture of a cute Japanese girl in a miniskirt bent over smiling to the camera from between her legs. Directly above her derrière were the proud words: One of the Three Natural Wonders of Japan. Another pamphlet urged visitors to “enjoy the beautiful view between your legs,” and the local tourist souvenir is a wooden